


What really matters

by pergamond



Series: Careers [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 08:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pergamond/pseuds/pergamond
Summary: Atobe hosts his own radio show but Oshitari is not always impressed by its contents. He attempts to show Atobe the difference between romance and business. (Inspired by the TeniPuri Workplace Kutsurogi Collection.)Extract:Atobe raised an eyebrow as the guide bowed low to both parties and disappeared back into the cubicles of broadcasting staff. “You have closed the surgery early, Yuushi,” he pointed out. “Please do not inform me that even Shishido has quit your services?”Oshitari’s gaze swept over the room before meeting Atobe’s eyes squarely. “Rings, Keigo,” he said with deliberation. “Do not make a good or bad relationship.”





	What really matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [balloyarn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/balloyarn/gifts).



 

With a clunk, the door to the doctor’s office opened sufficiently for a man to tumble outwards onto the vinyl tiled floor of the surgery’s waiting area. The expelled patient waited a breath, then hauled himself up onto the palms of his hands and crawled forwards until his legs cleared the doorway. The door clicked shut behind him as he levered himself to his feet and fumbled with the glasses that were hanging off one ear.

One large hand mopped ineffectively at the wet face as the man let out a sound like a suppressed sob. Staggering forwards, he crashed into the reception desk and caused the person behind the polished white counter to hurriedly push his wheeled office chair back a few feet. Without seeming to realise where he was, the man lurched forward yet again with one outstretched hand extended towards the exit door.

“Oi!” the receptionist called after him. “Don’t you want a follow-up appointment?”

The man fumbled at the automatic glass doors which glided open with his sweaty palms still stuck to the glass. He stumbled again and caught hold of the door frame. “Oh, there’s no need. No point!” he called back. The doors tried to close but the man’s hands now prevented the transparent partitions sliding back into place. They bumped gently against his palms. “I can’t come back! I’m out of time! The clock’s run out!” And with that proclamation, he fell onto the street.

Shishido Ryou adjusted the baseball cap that was keeping his growing locks out of his face. He might be only the temporary receptionist, but that seemed an undue amount of drama for a regular walk-in medical clinic.

Tapping on the clinic’s computer, he closed the web browser he had been using to procure Star Wars movie tickets for the next week. Taking a shifty look around the empty waiting room, he then accessed the surgery’s database and brought up the appointment list for that morning. Shishido did not have access to the patients’ medical files but he could see the questionnaire they completed when they made the appointment. The scanned sheet for the 10am slot read “in-growing toenail”. How the hell did you get from a mangey foot to certain death in the span of a 10 minute appointment slot?

Pushing himself off the office chair, Shishido flipped over the reception desk to land neatly on its far side. Walking to the door the toenail guy had fallen from five minutes before, he knocked brusquely and entered.

“Hey, Yuushi, what you say to the old geezer back there?” he asked, tapping on the wooden desk to get the attention of the doctor who was seated with his back to the door. “He’s all overwrought and stuff.”

The doctor didn’t reply, seemingly listening intently through his stethoscope. It would have been the proper occupation for a serious medic if there had actually been a patient in the room.

Shishido rolled his eyes as a picture of the recent events began to emerge. He walked around the desk and jerked one side of the stethoscope out of the doctor’s ear who jerked back in surprise.

“… _Thank you so much, Atobe-sama_ …” came a tinny voice from the stethoscope’s free eartip. “… _I’ll be sure to do exactly as you say!_ ”

Shishido gave a second tug and pulled the medical instrument away from the doctor entirely, turning it over with a combination of mild disgust and interest. “You got this thing rigged up to the radio?!”

“Mmm.” Oshitari Yuushi leaned back on his chair, rubbing his abused ear as he rotated the chair to face his receptionist. “No need to lecture me, Ryou. I’m regretting that for many reasons right now.”

Shishido tapped the small bluetooth connector he found embedded in the stethoscope’s bell. Oshitari’s computer let out a wail of static. “Not as much as your last patient,” he pointed out. “He thinks he’s off home to die.”

Oshitari adjusted his glasses with a small frown. “He has a mildly disgusting toenail. I told him to soak the foot in hot water and stop imitating his daughter’s ballet class.”

Shishido raised his eyebrows as he twirled the stethoscope tubing. “And then you said what? ‘Cause he doesn’t look like he’s that much into ballet.”

“Well… I…” Oshitari reached forward and caught the stethoscope bell before Shishido took out half the items on his desk. “A young lady called into Atobe’s radio program and asked if she should call off her impeding nuptials due to the engagement ring stone being rather small.”

Shishido screwed up his face in disgust. “Where the hell does he find these people? And why does some jewellery matter? Either she wants to marry him or not.” He let his half of the converted stethoscope drop and perched on the end of Oshitari’s desk. “Why is Atobe hosting some lonely hearts advice hour? I thought his show was supposed to be about business.”

“… Yes,” replied Oshitari in heavy resignation. “To all of the above. Apparently Atobe himself is enough to draw in those seeking help on affairs of the heart, regardless of where his …” he paused to select the correct word. “… expertise… actually lies.”

“Lame.” Shishido considered this a moment and then gestured for Oshitari to continue. “How does this get us to terminal toenails?”

“Well…” Oshitari cleared his throat as he placed the stethoscope back around his neck and picked up a pile of papers to randomly sort. “… Atobe informed this young lady that if the ring did not live up to her expectations, then neither would the relationship.”

Shishido snorted.

“That would have been the better response,” Oshitari admitted. “Instead I might have muttered something about life destroying… ruined forever… one slip and all future happiness gone… death for the future… that sort of thing. And by ‘muttered’ I mean ‘proclaimed in considerable agitation’.”

Shishido’s snort turned into a howl of laughter. “All while looking at this poor dude’s feet?”

Oshitari managed a wry smile. “I’ll give him a call.”

The stethoscope crackled into life in Ositari’s hand. “… _and it’s another unlucky-in-love caller for Atobe-sama! He must be the love doctor for half of Tokyo by now_ …!”

“Now he’s the love doctor?!” Shishido repeated in disgust. “Super lame. That’s right over your territory and— Oi, Yuushi! Where are you going?”

Oshitari had been staring fixedly at the stethoscope but now he cast is aside. It skidded across the desk to collide with Shishido’s thigh. He rose to his feet and stepped from behind the desk, shrugging off the white medical coat and throwing it onto a hook by the door. “This can’t go on.”

Swinging his long outer coat about himself, Oshitari paused at the door. “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done,” he said before turning from the room.

Shishido slid off the desk and looked across the mercifully still empty waiting area to where Oshitari was striding towards the clinic exit. “You’re going to the recording studio, aren’t you?”

Oshitari looked back at him. “Call the toenail guy. Tell him something about personal problems and get him back here for next week.”

The doors slid shut behind him and Shishido saw the end of his coat sweep across the car parking lot. Very heroic. “Personal problems,” he muttered. “Lame. And totally spot on.”

  

 

* * * * *

 

Oshitari gave the young man guiding him through the broadcasting company’s open-plan offices a courteous half-bow as they arrived at a line of recording studios. Through the glass partitions, he could see Atobe delivering a finishing statement before his support crew signalled the scion was now off the air. Fortunately for the structure of the glass and those last few nationally-shared seconds, the closing monologue piping through the small radio pinned above the door did seem to be on business management.

His guide paused a beat until he saw Atobe remove his headset and then tapped on the glass. At the lordly beckon, Oshitari entered the studio and leaned against the wall with his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat.

Atobe raised an eyebrow as the guide bowed low to both parties and disappeared back into the cubicles of broadcasting staff. “You have closed the surgery early, Yuushi,” he pointed out. “Please do not inform me that even Shishido has quit your services?”

Oshitari’s gaze swept over the room before meeting Atobe’s eyes squarely. “Rings, Keigo,” he said with deliberation. “Do not make a good or bad relationship.”

Atobe considered him for a moment as he placed the source of this comment. Then he made a dismissively flick of his fingertips. “The aesthetics indicate what lies beneath. If the boy cannot even get the decorations correct, he will fail to please at every level. I saved them both from a lifetime of intense disappointment.”

“Or you doomed them both to an eternity of loneliness, doubtless in poverty as they attempt to fill the void with ever more superficial material processions!” snapped Oshitari.

He pushed himself off the wall and straightened, taking in Atobe’s attire with one sweep of his hand. “You have a perchance for frilled violet shirts. If I were to buy you a gift, it would not match your tastes but trust me, Keigo. The choice would be doing both of us a favour.” He took a breath, before continuing more quietly. “The point is that tastes do not need to be exactly aligned for people to be perfect for one another.”

Atobe rested casually on his desk and folded his arms. “In business, the details matter,” he replied, as unruffled as the shirt frills that neatly missed the press of his arms across his chest. “One unregistered donation, wrongly ordered account books… these indicate a crumbling below the surface because if the business is sound, it is easy to get the details correct.”

Oshitari removed his glasses as if losing the two thin panes of uncorrective glass could help himself and Atobe see more eye-to-eye. “Business is not the same as the affaires d’amour.”

Atobe lifted his eyebrows. “Truly, I see little difference. In both cases, there is cost and gain and the goal is to maximise the latter over the former.”

“Truly,” repeated Oshitari. “This is why you should not be offering relationship advice during your business hour.”

He repositioned his glasses and walked over to the window whose situation on the 20th floor afforded a grand view over the Tokyo urban sprawl. So many people hunting for love in this sea of concrete that packed people tight but sucked emotion from between the spaces. Atobe had influence and reach but as much romantic intuition as a magic eight ball. One that had lost its batteries. To make a difference to this cold city, Oshitari needed his friend to give out real advice. And for that…

“Let me show you the difference between business and love, Atobe,” he said, his warm breath clouding the view of the city through the glass.

“Ahn?” Atobe inquired from behind him. “What demonstration do you propose?”

Oshitari turned back to face him. “Two dates,” he suggested. “One in the perfect environment. The best restaurant in the city. Your favourite champagne. Romantic dessert on the river. Whatever you deem to be fitting. The second…” he smirked, humour returning to his gaze as he thought this idea through. “…let’s leave it as somewhere you have never been.”

Atobe considered the suggestion, walking over to join Oshitari in looking out over the city. “And who do you propose will join me on these occasions?”

Oshitari looked through the glass doors into the heart of the broadcasting studio. “Why, Keigo, we advertise,” said Hyoutei’s tensai. “Your loyal listeners can write-in describing why they should be your date for the most perfect evening on the most romantic night of the year.” He gestured towards the calendar tacked to the studio wall. “A Christmas Eve special. Your ratings would skyrocket.”

Atobe contemplated the prospect in silence for a moment. Oshitari could almost hear the numbers clicking through the young business man’s brain as he turned listening figures into company profit. Finally he turned to face Oshitari. “I have the final say on who my date will be,” he clarified.

Oshitari inclined his head. “Naturally. It is your perfect evening, after all.”

“And who,” Atobe asked. “Would be the one to suffer through whatever cheap, cut-price spectacle you wish to pose as a counter example?”

Oshitari smiled. “That would be me, Keigo.”

 

* * * * *

 

“This one seems sweet,” Ohtori Choutarou held up one of the postcards scattered over the dining room table. The photograph attached to the front showed a girl with long hair and bangs, smiling demurely at the camera. “She writes, ‘I love to dance. Perhaps Atobe-sama would like to take a twirl under the Christmas lights after dinner?’”

Shishido snorted. “She’d like to show Atobe her moves? Kinky.”

Ohtori looked affronted. “I’m sure that’s not what she meant!” he turned back to the card, scanning the text more carefully. “… is it?”

Oshitari reached across the table and plucked the card from Ohtori’s fingers. The three of them and Atobe were in the main dining room of the Atobe family home. They were seated at one end of a table that could comfortably sit twenty-four but the postcards radio listeners had sent into Atobe’s date night contest spilled down to the far end. Oshitari had invited Shishido as it was the only way such a narcissistic venture would be enjoyable. Then he had invited Ohtori to ensure they did at least pick one of the applicants.

Now, he held up the card for Atobe to inspect. “An attempt at originality,” he pointed out. “But terribly cliched.”

Atobe glanced at the card. “I will consider the first applicant who Shishido fails to make into a seasoned harlot.”

“It’s an honest profession!” Shishido pointed out as he shuffled through the stack of entries closest to him. “Whoa. Check out this dude.”

“What does it say?” asked Ohtori, rising half out of his chair so he could lean across the table to take a look.

“Not really a word thing.” Shishido put the card in the centre of their small gathering with the two attached photographs topside.

There was a moment’s silence.

“A sizeable offering,” noted Oshitari.

Ohtori scooted back to his own seat so fast the chair toppled backwards and hit the floor. Red in the face, he righted the seat and sat back down. “Was it necessary to spread over two photographs?” he asked. “Couldn’t he just have stood a bit further back from the camera?”

Shishido flipped over the postcard. “Doesn’t give a proper name,” he commented. “Posted in Okinawa by some guy calling himself ‘dark horse’.”

“How about…” Ohtori scrabbled at the nearest pile of postcards, spreading them over the table as his fingers attempted to scoop one up. “… this one!” His eyes scanned the text. “She likes ballroom dancing, was born in London and is studying tourism.”

“Give me that.” Shishido held out his hand and Ohtori flicked the card over to him. Shishido scanned the text and then peered at the photo. “You know, this one’s not totally lame. Still goes for the naive school girl look in the photos though.”

“I believe it’s thought to be charming,” Oshitari commented, leaning over Shishido’s shoulder to see the card.

“It makes me feel I should arrest myself.”

Atobe lifted an empty box from beside his chair and held it out to Shishido. “A shortlist of one,” he said. “Do you think we can try to gather at least five?”

 

* * * * *

 

Atobe adjusted his scarf as the ticket machine spat copious numbers of coins into the metallic change tray. He stared at the metal a moment and then gathered the coins into one palm and returned to the station gate.

“Keigo, do you truly not possess an IC card?” Oshitari inquired. “Or indeed, a note smaller than a 10,000?”

“I possess a chauffeur,” Atobe informed him cooly. “Leaving us with the quandary as to why you refused to use his services.”

“Ah,” Oshitari adjusted his glasses with a poorly concealed smirk. “That will become obvious anon. Let us say for now that it would not fit in with the ambiance of the evening.” He looked at the change Atobe was still holding in his hand. “You do not have a coin purse either, I take it?”

“It would ruin the tailoring of my trousers.” Atobe poured the chinking mass into Oshitari’s hand and then strode through the ticket barrier. Oshitari followed, tapping his own IC card on the detector and retrieving the paper ticket Atobe had left in the machine.

The platform was crowded with people also heading into the central parts of the city for their evening entertainment. Personal space vanished entirely as the train arrived and people pressed in, more determined to fit within the railed metal sardine can than continue to consume oxygen.

Crushed between the door and Oshitari, Atobe twisted his neck to look back at his companion. “If you had furnished me with its location, I could have met you at the restaurant.”

“Which is why I did no such thing,” Oshitari’s tone was gratingly cheerful. “This evening is supposed to be a contrast to the one you will enjoy on Christmas Eve. We start with an appreciation of the city’s transport infrastructure.”

Atobe relieved the crick in his neck to look back out at the miasma of buildings rushing past them. “If your goal is to demonstrate that the circumstances of a date are no more than a minor consideration, my pelvis disagrees.”

The train braked at a station and there was a surge for the opening doors. Oshitari leaned around Atobe to hold the rain, providing a buffer between the unseeing swarms and his friend’s person. “Then your pelvis is a spoil-sport,” he said against Atobe’s ear.

Slate-blue eyes slid back to consider Oshitari. “You are incorrigible,” came the dry reply.

“Unrepentantly.”

Twenty minutes later and the train pulled into Roppongi station, ejecting almost all its passengers onto the platform in a vomit of humanity. Carried by the crowd, Atobe and Oshitari wove towards the escalator and one of the station’s exits to the outside.

“I do hope you at least reserved a table,” Atobe grimaced as cold air finally smacked against his face.

“Oh, that wasn’t necessary,” Oshitari replied cheerfully, setting off at a brisk stride across the pavement.

Despite being a week early for the traditional Christmas Eve fare, there was a considerable line for the counter at the KFC branch Oshitari stopped outside. The plastic life-sized figure of Colonel Sanders stood outside the door, decked out in a Santa Claus costume to welcome customers.

Atobe fixed the colonel with a steely gaze and then attempted the same look on Oshitari. Both were equally ineffective. “You cannot be serious.”

The answer to that arrived within fifteen minutes in the form of a plastic tray heaped with grease-proof paper that arguably contained dinner.

Atobe looked down at the tray. “Oshitari, there is nothing remotely romantic about plastic chairs and offerings that are neither meat based nor consistent with a vegetarian diet,” he declared.

Oshitari tsked softly. “On the contrary, Keigo, this is a popular location for many young couples.” Admittedly, the pairs seated around them were typically either accompanied by small children or under eighteen themselves, but this was no more than a minor detail. “And I can assure you the food is all chicken. Just not perhaps the parts of the bird you normally consume.” He sat and ripped open the paper. “Will you start with a chicken wing or potato fries?”

Atobe sat gingerly on the plastic chair edge, looking with mild horror at the light brown mass Oshitari had revealed before them. “Yuushi…”

“Open wide, Keigo.” Selecting one of the french fries in a mocking gesture, Oshitari pressed it to Atobe’s mouth. “The unhygienic sharing of food is part of the traditional date experience.”

It was between parting his lips or taking the strip of potato up the nose. After a moment’s consideration, Atobe opened his mouth to have his tongue abused by salt. He coughed and reached for his drink to have salt replaced by sugar.

“See? Delicious,” Oshitari said, taking a notably tiny bite from one of the chicken wings.

Atobe reached for a napkin. “And what would be suitable conversation during such traditional encounters in such an establishment?” he inquired.

Oshitari divided one of the fries into two as he scanned the people around them. “I would say there is a tradition for establishing your companion’s dating history,” he speculated. “Followed by faux reassurances that this night is nothing like the ones that evidently failed before.”

Unwrapping a straw, Atobe tried his soda a second time. “If your own history frequently involved such establishments then your appalling track record with retaining the services of a surgery receptionist becomes staggeringly obvious.”

Oshitari put on an affronted expression. “I have never dated my staff.”

“Ahn? Are they aware of this?”

Oshitari put two french fries into his mouth and chewed contemplatively. “I’ve certainly never taken them here.”

“Then my sympathy with their situation is decidedly diminished.” Atobe watched Oshitari reach again into the bag of fries. “You should finish your chicken wing.”

Oshitari’s hand paused. “The same could be said for you, Keigo.”

Atobe slid his arms out of his coat, draping the heavy garment over the empty chair next to his own. Flexing his shoulders, he took a more relaxed position. “I feel a practical demonstration is required from the organiser of tonight’s activities,” he said, leaning back on his chair.

Oshitari took a slow sip of his drink. “Surely you are not admitting to being a novice at something?”

Metal squeaked as the chair slid on the floor as Atobe’s pose overtipped the spindly seat. Righting the legs, Atobe leaned in, resting his arms on the table as his eyes locked with Oshitari. “In this… exceptional… case, I must profess my inexperience.” He gave the paper containing the chicken a prod.

Oshitari looked down at the chicken wing. Grey flesh poked through the breadcrumbs he had nibbled through earlier. “Well then…” he took one of the packaged wet serviettes and carefully cleaned his fingers before lifting the meat.

“A slow process for so-called fast food,” Atobe offered.

Oshitari bit into the wing, pulling the lank bird from the bone and chewing deliberately.

“I acknowledge that these items are a reasonable return for your money,” Atobe noted, conversationally. “You must have a minimum of ten more bites on that one wing.”

Oshitari took a second bite, slowly pulling away the chicken. He looked up and locked eyes again with Atobe, taking his time at stripping the breadcrumbs and meat before chewing. Finally picked clean, he let the bones fall to the plate.

“Delightful,” he said. “I really couldn’t experience this alone.” Lifting a second wing, he raised it to Atobe’s face. “Eat this, Keigo, or I wipe my hands on your 100% wool coat.”

The small lake buried within the Roppongi Hills shopping centre was gently lit with a festive display of tiny lights. People walked along the boards lining the water edge, standing at the point where the draped illuminations formed a heart above the inky pool. Atobe kept his coat unbuttoned to allow the cool night air to flush out the smell of fried chicken that seemed to have permeated all fibres. It was notable that despite his unfailing praise of their dinner, Oshitari did the same.

“I spent exactly 1000 yen on this date. Actually rather less, since I used the change you bestowed on me at the station to pay for the food.” Oshitari bent by one of the trees, touching the tiny lights that wrapped about the roots with one finger.

“It was cheap and disgusting. I may still expel it from my stomach.”

Oshitari looked up at Atobe with a humorous glint in his eyes. “Try to avoid expelling on the lights,” he straighten and faced his companion. “But has this experience changed your opinion of me or made you want to see me less?”

“The former, most definitely,” Atobe retorted. “I am never letting you into my presence without first watching you wash your hands.”

Oshitari reached out and took both of Atobe’s hands in his own, squeezing the cold fingers. “It’s like playing tennis, Keigo. The game needs differences between the opponents to keep it interesting and the court doesn’t matter at all.”

 

* * * * *

 

“I would have thought true connoisseurs of a genre would shun the concession stands,” Oshitari remarked as a large box of half-and-half popcorn was thrust into his hands.

“It’s Star Wars, not the ballet,” Shishido retorted, taking a slurp from one of the two large cups of soda he was carrying. “Trust me, you’ll want something to munch on when we get to the porgs.”

“Get to the… what?” Oshitari’s face creased into an expression of mild incredulity. “I thought this movie was of the family friendly variety.”

“Porgs! P-O-R-G-S,” exclaimed Shishido, coke spilling from the cup rim as he lifted his arms in exasperation. “Keep your filthy mind away from the Force.”

They headed for the screens, passing their tickets to the attendant who directed them towards the IMAX theatre.

“Exactly how many times have you seen this movie already, Ryou?” Oshitari inquired.

“Four total. Two in IMAX,” Shishido replied, leading the way up the aisle to where their deluxe seats offered extra leg room. “But you gotta see it on Christmas Eve and you needed a distraction.”

“I am hardly preoccupied,” Oshitari objected. He balanced the popcorn box on the arm rest and shrugged out of his coat. Two rows in front of them, a girl was wearing a tee-shirt with the words ‘Kylo Ren is my boyfriend’ scrawled in pink on the back. Even if he were a little out of sorts that evening, what were regular problems in such a crowd?

“You let me buy you a Star Wars ticket and even paid me for it,” Shishido replied. “The fact you then turned up pretty much seals the deal.”

“I was simply being supportive of your interests,” Oshitari retorted. He sat and nudged Shishido, nodding towards the girl in the Kylo Ren shirt. “Are you here on Christmas Eve because your date is in the movie? If it’s Kylo, he might be cheating.”

“Don’t be lame.” Shishido took a big handful of popcorn from the bag. “I don’t need an imaginary date. And if I did, it wouldn’t be that wet daddy’s boy.”

“A porg?” suggested Oshitari, selecting a single piece of popcorn to sample. It was marginally better than the fried chicken.

“A droid. Way more bad ass.”

As the theatre reverberated with the iconic music followed by the scene-setting text rolling into the distance, Oshitari sat back in his seat. Shishido was right; he did need a distraction.

Through the previous week, he had assisted Atobe in making Christmas Eve plans for his radio date. Dinner at a renowned restaurant with their own private sushi chef. Dessert on a river cruise with a string quartet. Finale of drinks with a private fireworks display. It was sickening textbook romance and Oshitari had been the perfect person to organise the night.

Now he was trying to forget he had.

He gazed at the theatre screen as some badly trained solider with a death wish flew tandem with one of Shishido’s potential love interests and got the rest of his team killed. It was hardly a recipe for success. Just so was this perfectly planned date unlikely to deliver genuine romance. Winning wars was about team work. Dates were about the right partner.

Yet now Oshitari was watching a collection of trigger-happy self-proclaimed lone heroes saving the galaxy against overwhelming odds. Apparently for the eighth time. Was it possible that Atobe too, might find his night out to be everything he expected?

“I can’t believe how much popcorn you ate,” Shishido remarked as they left the dimly lit theatre and stepped back into the bright lights of the cinema foyer. “I thought you said it was butter-flavoured cardboard. Did you even watch the movie or just comfort eat while dwelling on Atobe and his date every time you saw Chewie with the porgs?”

Oshitari threw the empty popcorn box into the trash. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ryou. We selected Atobe’s date together. She has a nose.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his butter-stained fingers. “I watched the movie. Small band of resistance fighters narrowly survives against overwhelming odds and hang all their future hope on one individual with special powers. Ryou, these movies all have an identical plot.”

“Tsh, wrong.” was the response. “This was the best Star Wars yet. I’ll catch you later, Yuushi. I’m going to try and get tickets for tomorrow night.”

Oshitari took the scenic route to his apartment that involved skipping the last subway transfer and walking. The night was cold, but he let his coat hang open with his hands dug in his pockets.

They had picked a seemingly decent choice from the piles of postcards sent in from listeners. The girl was pretty and had interests that did not wholly revolve around listening to Atobe’s dreadful radio show. But how good a match for the heir to Tokyo’s largest trillion yen enterprise could be someone who entered contests for a date on Christmas Eve? Oshitari had been sure the comparison would be sound: one delux date with someone Atobe had little in common, compared to an appalling location but a close friend as a companion. At the time, he thought it would demonstrate his point perfectly. Now he was wondering that some chance in a million might actually see Atobe and his random date hitting it off.

It would be a disaster for all the love sick idiots who took advice from Atobe’s show. And now Oshitari realised it would be a disaster for him too. He was the biggest idiot of all.

To his surprise, a stranger was standing at his apartment door. He walked up behind them and the person turned, holding a box.

“Apartment 405? Oshitari Yuushi?” the guy asked, handing him the package. “Here’s your delivery.”

“I didn’t…” Oshitari begun, bemusedly taking the box. His fingers slipped slightly on the greasy container and the jostling gave him a whiff of the aroma escaping from the lid.

“Thank you,” he told the courier, a slow smile spreading over his face as the man turned away. On the back of his delivery company jacket was the familiar red and white logo.

Oshitari pealed back the box lid to reveal the chicken wings. “Finger licking good,” he said aloud as a figure detached itself from around the corner and began to walk towards him.


End file.
